During a philosophical mood, my mother will often comment on her
advancing age. “Life goes quick, son,” she says, “You blink and
suddenly you’re 50.” In a way, I agree. Seems like yesterday I
followed the old man with a bubble lawn mower as he tended his
garden in Voltairian splendor. But aging is a slow process, marked
by infinitesimally miniscule advancements. It is with deep sorrow I
inform you that I may have advanced beyond MTV.
My love affair with MTV began in early childhood, when
protective parents forbade the channel. Of course, the word “no”
throws verbal gasoline upon a child’s raging inferno of curiosity,
and the first time my 8-year-old self witnessed a squadron of
strippers plying their trade to the tune of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,”
I was hooked.
Pathetic as it reads, MTV shaped my life. I received my
information from “MTV News,” my vocabulary from “Beavis and
Butt-head” and my tattoo and earrings from “Headbanger’s Ball.” Did
you know that the Air Force flies planes with no pilots? No, dude,
but did you know that Tommy Lee steers boats with no hands? Hell,
if it weren’t for a cigar, a Clinton and an intern, I might still
be avoiding hard news.
Like the Native American and their buffaloes, the rockers and
their babes slowly vanished from the cultural landscape. Rap
sustained my hero worship for a time, and during junior high it was
my life’s ambition to toss a forty on the stoop with Dre and Snoop.
But eventually, the Backstreet Boys arrived and decreed that “I
Want It That Way” would score future make-out sessions instead of
“Love Gun.”
No matter how much I drifted, “The Real World” was my anchor. I
followed the true story of seven strangers with the yearly fervor
of a long-suffering Cubs fan.
In its early seasons, “The Real World” was a paragon of youth
culture. Kevin Powell wrote his way to prominence as a hip-hop
journalist. An entire generation saw a human face put to the agony
of AIDS in the form of Pedro Zamora. And then there was Puck,
reality TV’s original bad guy a decade before Richard Hatch dropped
his shorts and Omarosa donned her suit.
Puck forever altered the “Real World” dynamic, and soon the
suits discovered that rascals equal ratings. Casts became
increasingly photogenic and predictable in the process. Token Gay
Guy? Check. Angry Black Dude, Saintly Co-Ed, Na�ve
Midwestern Stud? We’ve got ’em, boss, and Terminal Disease is on
the way.
Yet, still I watched–the formula was sinful, volatile viewing
at its finest. I lusted after Genesis, the blonde bombshell that
introduced “lipstick lesbian” into the pop-cultural lexicon. I
roared with guilty guffaws after Stephen administered to Irene what
Chris Rock later declared “the bitch-slap heard ’round the world.”
I questioned Brad’s sexuality after he failed to score with
Cameran, a babe hot enough to trigger fire alarms through my
television set.
Perhaps the best has yet to come in Philly, but I doubt it.
There’s simply no sex appeal this year, and, yes, I’m comfortable
enough to include the guys in this category. Something’s wrong with
the “World” when two foppish, curly-haired gymrats are straight and
a thuggish, ruggish brother is not.
If it weren’t for her breast implants, Sarah couldn’t win a
beauty contest among the most derelict of Humphrey’s barflies.
Willie is the missing member of the Queer Eye crew, and I’ve heard
Shavonda’s sob story countless times on “Oprah.” Melanie is fine
though–I’d hook up with Melanie.
Barring a much-needed catastrophe, I think I’ll pass on this
season of “The Real World.” The spiritual ramblings of seven ugly
morons just aren’t as compelling as the vapid meanderings of
beautiful people. Last week, I eulogized Rodney Dangerfield and
today I say goodbye to a vital part of my youth.
Alas, MTV, I’ve known ye too long.
